Whatever else I had gotten wrong, I had at least, at the end, been able to give her that — the thing she asked for, in the place she loved, instead of the thing my fear wanted to impose on her.

I had learned, at last, the difference between keeping someone alive and loving them well.

Chapter 19 — Thomas

The next afternoon, there was a soft knock at the front door.

An elderly man in a silver bolo tie and a wide-brimmed hat stood on the porch, holding a brown paper bag.

“Rosa?” he called, gently.

My mother lifted her head from her pillows, and a smile broke across her face that I had not seen in months.

“Thomas.”